


Bella Notte

by AnonymousSong



Category: Sherlock (TV)
Genre: Fluff, Gen, Post-Reichenbach
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2014-01-01
Updated: 2014-01-01
Packaged: 2018-01-07 00:41:54
Rating: General Audiences
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 1
Words: 2,248
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/1113443
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/AnonymousSong/pseuds/AnonymousSong
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>Angelo watches the rises and falls of his two favourite customers.</p>
<p>Written for the Sherlock Mini-Bang.</p>
            </blockquote>





	Bella Notte

**Author's Note:**

> This was written before all the new season 3 stuff came out, for the Sherlock Mini-Bang!
> 
> There's a lovely art piece by the darling KJNeely that goes along with it! :D [[click here](http://kjneely.deviantart.com/art/Bella-Notte-Sherlock-BBC-423772417)]

For a man who had no qualms about breaking into cars and houses, Angelo was quite soft-hearted. He appreciated the friends that had tumbled into his life and always saw to it that he helped them in whatever ways he could.

He quite clearly remembered the young man that had burst into the interrogation room, grey eyes glassy, ranting about the Abbington murderer. Angelo had sat in shock, along with several police officers, as the lanky man had gone on to explain that Angelo had in fact not killed the Abbingtons but had been breaking into the Richards’ house on the other side of town. The police had yelled at the man but Angelo had thanked him with a smile, happy to confess to a robbery compared to a murder.

The curly-haired man had looked at Angelo oddly, as if he didn’t know what to do with thanks. He had adjusted his coat, murmured something into the lapels, and shuffled away.

A handful of months later, when Angelo found the same young man smoking on the corner of Northumberland, he had invited him for a free meal at his restaurant. The man went on to introduce himself as Sherlock Holmes and Angelo counted him as a friend.

The consulting detective, as he called himself, occasionally showed up at Angelo’s door, and never for actual food. He came sniffing around for information or a hiding spot or once, memorably, crashing through the front door, tackling a criminal. Each time, Angelo helped him back to his feet and offered him a plate of food. The man really was too skinny.

Sherlock declined each time, with that awkward shuffle of thanks. No matter how tall Sherlock held himself, how much he hissed out at people, Angelo saw through it. Oh, it was hard to see, certainly, only showing at just the right angle.

A small, glimmering look at the heart that lay under a crocodile grin. A curiosity for the world hidden under thick layers of disdain.

Angelo had heard the cruel things spat at Sherlock, flinched at the words the detective had snarled back. He could recognize a cornered soul when one was before him.

So, when on one unlikely night, a text came in from Sherlock, asking a favour for a case, Angelo agreed readily. Not long after, when Sherlock showed up looking smooth as cream with a limping man following him, Angelo had known. Hell, the entire staff had seen it. They had all traded looks of amazement, some even exchanged money.

Angelo couldn’t help the grin that came over him as he introduced himself to Sherlock and his date - what else could the man be? He could see the nervousness in Sherlock’s eyes, carefully guarded, the way he was keeping himself posed, eager to impress. Angelo set a candle on the table, barely able to keep the happiness from his face.

His nephew, Billy, playfully smacked him on the arm, warning him about scaring the bloke off, but the staff’s eyes were all trained on the couple at the window seat; subtly, of course. Working in the food and service business taught one how to successfully eavesdrop and observe without appearing to.

When Sherlock sprinted out and his companion left behind the walking cane he had limped in with, Angelo picked it up and slipped it behind the counter. The table was cleared and from the window, he watched the two men run off out of sight, apparently chasing down a taxi.

Another text came in from Sherlock, rather kindly asking that John’s - so that was his name! - cane be returned to 221B Baker Street. Angelo smiled and slipped out, leaving the restaurant in the hands of his trusted staff.

He showed up at the front door and John’s surprised face gaped at him and Sherlock was in the back, grinning like a fool.

The two showed up a few more times at the restaurant, Angelo always insisting the meals were free. Each time, Sherlock thanked him, his shuffle growing a bit more confident, and John Watson left some notes on the table regardless of it all.

John even stopped protesting the candle, just giving it an amused sort of smile before going back to his food.

It was, well… inspiring was a word for it. The friendship between the two. Sherlock was loud, yes, and harsh at times and lovely at others but no matter what, John seemed to absorb it all and make everything shine. At first glance, many assumed it was John Watson who was stuck in the orbit of the consulting detective, bound and captivated. A few thought it was the other ways around.

Angelo could see that they were both captivated by each other, both equally pulled in. A mind as sharp as a razor and a heart as strong as a diamond. They were a striking pair, the two of them, and Angelo put money on their happy ending.

And then Sherlock Holmes jumped off the roof of a building.

And two of Angelo’s favourite customers didn’t show up again, seeing as how one was dead and the other was grieving fiercely. Angelo saw John at the funeral, looking almost confused, his blue eyes hollow and glassy.

The cane had made its way back into his hand.

Angelo wanted to say something, how John would always be welcome at the restaurant, anything from the menu, even things not listed because they had an impressive collection of alcohol in the back. But everything sounded like a stream of lemon right into a bleeding heart.

When he opened the restaurant the next day, Billy and Martha and the rest of the staff had looked at him hard before putting a sign up on the wall above the kitchen door.

We Believe in Sherlock Holmes

Angelo hugged them all, joyed at the family surrounding him.

Months passed. Evidence sprouted of Richard Brooke being a fake, a fraud, someone out to drag down Sherlock Holmes. It was considered an old story but still, Angelo saw a trend bloom - yellow paint, buttons, bags, all displaying their belief in the late Sherlock Holmes.

Angelo couldn’t help but snort at it a bit. Too little, too late. The public had thrown his friend under the bus quite quickly before, had thrown him down faster than gravity.

The trend faded, as they do, though Angelo would occasionally spot the familiar yellow in the street. The sign in the restaurant stayed up for a full year before one of the newer waitresses, Joanna, made a mention of it. Some of the staff debated taking it down but Angelo refused. It would feel wrong to take it down, despite how the time had passed. It remained, a monument to a great man.

On the first anniversary, they even had a discount at the restaurant for anyone who could successfully solve a riddle. The challenge was received with gusto and by the second year since Sherlock Holmes had died, the day had gotten popular. The third year was accepted even more warmly amongst his faithful customers.

It was a handful of months after the third anniversary that the bell on the front door rang and Angelo looked up to see none other than Sherlock Holmes standing in his doorway. He gaped in surprise, not trusting his eyes until Billy yelled about a ghost and fell over.

The man before him was indeed Sherlock Holmes, alive and breathing, huffing out a breath of surprise when Angelo hugged him hard. His hair was cut short, eyes darker, and with the hug, Angelo could feel how he had grown, muscled in a way he hadn’t been before. He wondered just what the detective had been up to.

After getting over his shock, Angelo realized that trailing behind, limping, was John Watson. He looked uncertain, eyes hard and trained on Sherlock. Angelo also finally noticed the split lip and black eye the consulting detective was sporting.

He sat them down quickly at their usual window seat, bustling to get a bag of ice for Sherlock’s face. The man tried to wave it off but John quietly insisted.

“Greg’s got a hell of a right hook,” John murmured, looking uncomfortable and slightly pained. Angelo remembered the ease they’d had together when the two had last stepped into the restaurant.

“And you’ve a hell of a left,” Sherlock replied, not meeting his friend’s eye, wiping at his slowly bleeding lip.

Angelo set down a basket of bread and a tea-light candle. Just as always.

John’s mouth turned down into a deep-set frown at the light but didn’t protest against it. There was a harsh tension in his shoulders, a shaking to his hands. Sherlock was watching in the corner of his eye, lips thin.

A silence settled over the two, stretched taunt. John kept glancing at Sherlock before looking away again. Sherlock had his hands gripped in two tight fists on his lap. Angelo wondered if the night would continue as such or end with yelling. They were both obviously full to bursting with words, wanting to say something, but neither knew what.

There was a soft touch on Angelo’s shoulder and he looked to see Violet. Her hair was dyed to match her name and he’d never had a more brilliant chef in his kitchen.

She had been one of the staff who actually regularly talked with Sherlock. She’d cleaned blood from his hands after he had slid through the glass, tackling that criminal all those years ago. She’d been the one to protest against the sign being taken down.

In her hands was a plate of spaghetti, piled with meatballs, big enough for two. She winked once at him before bringing the bowl to the table by the window.

“Hullo, boys,” she greeted. They looked up, recognizing Violet after a moment. Both men gave strained smiles.

Violet set the bowl down between them, along with two forks.

“It’s good to see you again, both of you.” She looked at them, smiling, before heading back to the kitchen. Angelo mentally put it on his list to give her a raise.

Sherlock’s eyes seemed to be captivated by the small candle. Angelo could see the lines on his face, deep and harsh. The past three years, whatever he had been up to, had aged him.

John hefted a fork in his hand, staring at the silver. A few quiet moments collected before John dispersed them.

“Mary says that she thinks that you’re a tosser.”

“Such language for a primary school teacher.”

“A rude, arrogant tosser who can’t keep his mouth shut,” John continued, looking up at Sherlock with a hard set to his jaw.

“She’s not the first to call me that.”

“And she also wants to thank you.”

“I…” Sherlock stopped, eyebrows drawn together. “Thank me?”

“For coming back.”

Another silence wrapped around the two men, different in that it buzzed with the barest hint of hope.

“She wants to thank me for that?”

“Apparently.”

“For ruining your proposal night, causing a scene, and ending with half your moustache burned off?”

“That’s what she told me to tell you.”

Sherlock absorbed this, blinking a few times. He cleared his throat and accepted the words. John stuck his fork into the pile of noodles before him.

“I can’t forgive you… for what you did,” John said so softly that Angelo was mostly reading his lips rather than hearing the words. “You jumped and had me watch. And I can’t get it out of my head.”

“John…”

“No.” John held up his hand, cutting Sherlock off. He seemed to be steeling himself to say whatever had been building in his mouth. His body shook briefly before going still and strong.

“I’m angry at you. Hell, I want to sock you in the face again. What you did…” John cleared his throat. “I can’t forgive you. Not yet, anyway. But…” He looked Sherlock in the eye. “Well, it’s like I’m speaking with my own personal miracle. Here we are again, sitting in this place with a candle, for God’s sake. I…” John ducked his head briefly before straightening up, looking as if he were internally fighting against himself. “I never stopped believing in you. Not once.”

Sherlock didn’t seem to know what to do with himself. His hands fiddled with his fork while his teeth dug into his lower lip. He mumbled, “Always so shockingly loyal.”

John laughed briefly, lighting up their corner. He reached forward and rolled a meatball through the mess of noodles. “Eat something, you git. You’ve got a lot of explaining to do about what the hell you’ve been up to.”

The consulting detective speared the meatball and mildly glared at it. “Mycroft sent me to Russia first.”

“Really? You, in Russia? Do you even know Russian?”

“I’m a fast learner.”

Angelo smiled from where he stood. Violet poked her head out of the kitchen.

“Well, what do you know; it worked,” she smiled.

Chuckling, Angelo snagged her closer, planting a kiss on her cheek. “You brilliant girl.”

“Oh, stop. Spaghetti always works.” She turned back into the kitchen. “Oi, Ronny! You owe me ten quid!”

Angelo smiled at them, his insane staff, before turning his gaze back to two of his favourite customers. There were still bridges to repair between them, punches still to be thrown, confessions still to bring to light.

But it was nice to see them again, sitting together by that window.


End file.
